


The Bishop of the Northern Marches

by AJHall



Series: The Queen of Gondal [3]
Category: Bronte juvenilia, Life on Mars (UK), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Escape, Homophobia, Multi, Women Being Awesome, era-appropriate attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJHall/pseuds/AJHall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While John and Sherlock have been spying and building alliances up on the Northern border of Gaaldine, various tensions are coming to a head in Brendelhame, the provincial capital.  The last day of the Crown Princess Charis's solo visit to the city coincides with a local festival to celebrate the defeat of a Gondalian force there two centuries earlier.  At which point a rigidly moralistic Bishop, who sees all tactics as legitimate in the war against Sin, decides to preach a sermon on the evils of the sexes straying from their God-appointed spheres.  With a drink-fuelled mob on the rampage and numerous competing factions ready to take advantage of any opening all hell is about to break loose.</p><p>A downloadable ebook version of this story can be found <a href="http://ajhall.shoesforindustry.net/ebooks/36/ajhall_the_bishop_of_the_northern_marches/"> here </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No specific dedications, but as I have lots of friends with birthdays in July and I won't be able to write fic for all of you, consider it a general present.

Sherlock suppressed a gasp as the boot slid over the raw patch on his shin. Not effectively enough; John glanced up from the cup of small beer into which he had been staring with barely concealed loathing.

"You should have let me take a look at that."

"No-one dies of falling over a boot-scraper."

"You'd be surprised what I've seen men die of, in my time." He contemplated the beer mug. "Lucky sods."

"Time's running short. We need to be on the road to Brendelhame. Either drink that or pour it down the drain."

"They might not be alternatives." He grimaced and tipped the contents of the cup down his throat in one long swallow. "What the hell was she putting in those drinks last night, anyway?"

"Phyllis? Apple brandy. Her own distillate, I think. Superior still-room technique, if so."

"You might have warned me."

"I did. Twice. Anyway, make up whatever's left of your mind. The boy's already at the door with the Creature. They'll be bringing our horses out any minute."

"Could you stop calling it the Creature? You specified your requirements for a horse. I carried them out to the letter."

"And so you did." Sherlock rubbed the bruise on his upper arm. "Including the 'biting lumps out of anyone who approaches' part of the specification. Charis will be so pleased. An animal after her own heart."

"Oh, for the love of Mary, ditch the self-pity. Haven't sympathy to spare. Not this morning."

"Ah. I knew you'd crack, eventually." Laughter bubbled deep inside him. "If you'd any idea how much I've missed having someone telling me I'm being a pillock, these last few weeks."

John snorted. "Consider it added to my formal court duties on a permanent basis." He cocked his head on one side. "Damn! Those _are_ the horses."

"Come on, then. It's a splendid morning for a gallop. Calculated to settle a delicate digestion." He let a smile curl across his face, slow and malicious. "One way or the other."

………..

Away in the provincial capital, Charis was engaged in complex geometrical calculations. It would have been an advantage to have had a table, paper and instruments to hand, rather than having to calculate purely in her head. Still, she'd had extensive practice at concealing her true thoughts behind a demure façade. Also, plotting out the new altar-cloth for St Cecelia's Chapel was infinitely more interesting than the homily the provincial Bishop had decided to spring on the congregation this morning. Could one really design a border of twenty different musical instruments, all duly proportionate with each other, and have the thing work artistically?

She felt, rather than heard, a sudden ripple of shock run through the ladies besides her. Their eyes slid sideways, trying to assess her reaction. The Bishop paused for a moment in his address, waiting for the susurration to die down. Something about his carefully controlled pose struck a chord of memory.

 _Milking it, like a player._

That shaft must have been aimed at her. The fashionable congregation were plainly agog for her response.  
Mortal insult or mere glancing barb? She hadn't taken in a word of the sermon for almost a full turn of the glass. Not for the first time in the last few days, she directed a brief, exasperated thought towards the absent Crown Prince. It would have been nice to have had someone by her side who was, legally and by sacrament, bound to defend her honour. Especially someone who was the heir presumptive to the throne of Gaaldine and the possessor of a Look which left hardened men-at-arms quivering in their boots.

Though Sherlock, had he been here, no doubt wouldn't have heard whatever the Bishop had said, either.

She allowed a small, tight smile to decorate her lips and nodded in the direction of the pulpit, as if to convey that the Bishop had her leave to continue. The congregation inhaled, collectively. The mellifluous tones of the preacher filled the church once more.

Charis resumed her calculation of stitches to the square inch. If the Bishop chose to direct another comment in her direction, he would find her genuinely unresponsive.

The sermon over, the blessing pronounced and the congregation freed to scatter to the four winds, she shook off the twittering maids of honour and stalked, blessedly alone, down the cloisters and up the shallow flight of stairs at the end, towards the suite of rooms which had been put at her disposal during her stay in the provincial governor's palace.

Someone, it occurred to her belatedly, must have been displaced from that suite; it had no doubt been exceedingly inconvenient for them. Had John been here, he would have found out who it was and sent some suitable gift, accompanied by a note of regret and appreciation, both nicely judged to the recipient.

She ought – she supposed – do something about it.

Being left to her own devices was a test on more levels than she had anticipated. Including, of course, that of how to deal with the Bishop, for which she could hardly have been more ill-prepared.

Her personal maid – the new girl – was awaiting her in her suite, as expected. Sarai 's presence was anything but. Especially given Sarai's black watered silk gown with panniers, fichu, headdress, and sleeve-trim of starched white lace; a world away from her customary russet homespuns and leather jerkin.

As Charis lifted her arms to allow the maid to unhook her from the multiple layers of her formal mourning, Sarai said, "Your grace looks pale. Has your grace's earlier headache been worsened by the close air of the chapel?"

For a moment Charis floundered – she had complained of no headache, earlier. Then she understood.

 _A way out. A life-line._

She nodded, raising a hand to her temple for the benefit of the maid. "A little, perhaps. I shall lie down for a half turn of the glass." She looked the maid full in the face. "You - consider yourself dismissed until then. I shall wear the silk brocade for dinner. Sarai, in John's absence, might I ask your medical advice?"

The door whispered shut behind the departing maid. Sarai raised her eyebrows.

"If you need to get out of dinner, just say the word. You look pale enough as it is –just off the flowers, on top of everything? Thought so. But if you need to gild the lily, I've learnt a few tricks over the years for making an otherwise healthy body look at death's door. I've a nice line in simulated fevers, but that takes belladonna to distend the pupils, so don't try it if you're planning on embroidery or archery afterwards."

Despite herself, Charis giggled. "I thought doctors were vowed to _save_ lives."

"And you think my fakes haven't, over the years? Actually, as you will be seated next to the Bishop at dinner, perhaps even his? Given what he said today, I'd quite understand a desire to poison him. Though, as a doctor, I'd reluctantly have to concede that _would_ be an unethical use of belladonna."

That gave Charis the opening she had been wishing for.

"But what _did_ he say?"

"But you –" Sarai broke off and regarded Charis intently. "You weren't listening at all?"

"I hardly ever do. Everyone pesters for my attention every moment they can. I'd never get any time to myself if it weren't for church."

Sarai looked as if she were forcibly restraining herself from passing comment on someone's practice of a faith which was not her own. After a moment she said, "He concentrated on what he asserted to be the Church's teachings on the proper spheres allocated by the Divine to men and women. And on what awaits those who transgress the boundaries between the two."

"Oh," Charis said blankly.

Her whole life through, she could hardly remember a sermon which hadn't dwelt on that topic, whether it be "Wives, be in subjection to your husbands" or "May you bring forth children in labour and sorrow." That had been why she'd stopped listening in the first place. A God who could snatch away Mama to pay off his old score against Adam and Eve seemed to her very poor stuff indeed. Thank goodness the Blessed Virgin – and Cecilia, her patron saint – seemed above such masculine pettiness.

"Not the usual stuff," Sarai snapped. "Though he wrapped it up in obscure references. The homily was three parts over before the congregation grasped what he was talking about. And I'll wager half of them still aren't sure if he was attacking descent down the female line _per se_ – which should make for some interesting conversations when the news reaches the Palace, which will be before nightfall, if I'm any judge – or simply the notion of a Queen regnant. And, no doubt, a few assume him to be taking a swing at the Crown Prince, though the Bishop would be trebly a fool to swim in those waters."

Charis's knees gave way and she sank onto the bed, eyes closed. Malice, whispered rumours and backbiting – they were the staples of court life, whichever side of the border the court might be. But an attack from the pulpit on the very legitimacy of her position – and, perhaps, that of her husband and even the King of Gaaldine – she felt as if she had been stripped naked and flogged in the market place.

Something hard and cold nudged against her fingers. She opened her eyes and took the glass Sarai offered her. The tincture tasted faintly of fennel and had a surprisingly restorative effect. She sat upright and sought to gather her scattered wits.

"The King –"

Sarai smiled. It put Charis in mind of a hawk about to bate. "The King will undoubtedly do something. Though whether any of us will see what is done is quite another question. The Bishop is his appointee. We're in a volatile region. I would not put it past the King to have sent the Bishop here as a catalyst. If that's so, he will apparently do nothing. At least, not until he can analyse whatever that sermon precipitates."

Before her marriage, Charis had been wholly unfamiliar with natural philosophy; her father had considered it beyond the scope of the female brain. Sherlock had insisted on her being tutored in it. After eight months' study she had little difficulty in following Sarai's metaphor. Its implications chilled her.

"So, not the King, And the Crown Prince remains absent –"

Sarai snorted. "A blessing in disguise, that." At Charis's questioning look, she amplified, "Not the sort of crisis in which he shows to advantage. Where he can't ignore a direct insult, he behaves as if aiming to prove the insulter didn't grasp the half of it."

"Oh." Charis digested that. Then, "Not illness."

"I'm sorry?"

"You can't get me out of dinner with a headache. Not even a fake fever. It's too convenient. My governesses always guessed if I – but that's not important. I have to be there. I mustn't let the Bishop know he's found a weak spot. But – "

Misery overwhelmed her. The Bishop's face was horribly vivid in her memory; dark hair, sallow skin, thin, chiselled features. His face bore a slight sheen, almost as if oiled. She had coped with him in the chapel, but that had been on instinct, bolstered by ignorance of the insult levelled at her. Over dinner – at close quarters – she couldn't sustain any sort of façade. If John had been at her side – as he should have been, if he hadn't selfishly run off horse-buying with Sherlock – she might have been able to stand the meal without cracking. Or he would have thought of something to help her escape, more subtle than a faked headache.

"It's only in church that people can't get at me," she wailed in despair, and then paused.

 _Only in church._

"Sarai?"

"Yes, you grace?" Sarai dropped to sit next to her on the bed, all bright-eyed interest.

"Do one thing for me, please? Find out who has been petitioning me for an audience this morning. There are always hundreds – whether because they truly wish to see me or because the Crown Prince is away. Find me someone whose petition I cannot help but listen to. Even if the audience has to take the place of dinner. Send word of it to me in the ante-chamber, before we are called to dine. Send a page-boy. The sort who peacocks his message to all and sundry, so anyone listening will know it's true."

"Your grace –" Sarai leant forward, a warning growl beneath the surface formality of her address. "You cannot simply pick up and use your subjects – your brother the King's subjects – as it suits you."

"Why not? He does. And Sherlock. And they're not my subjects, anyway. Half of them still call me 'that Gondal piece' behind their hands." She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips; more when she saw Sarai's reaction.

Ugly. Petulant. _Childish_

Charis stretched out a tentative hand and rested it on Sarai's arm. The older woman's skin was dry, withered by innumerable suns. A ragged white scar trailed up the brown flesh until it vanished under the deep lace border of Sarai's sleeve.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean that. Any petition you choose for me to hear, I undertake to give my best attention. Consider it an offering to my patron saint."

"Be sure, then, I'll do my best to find a suitor you can do justice to."

With a swirl of her unprecedentedly demure skirts Sarai rose from the bed and swept from the room. Charis lay back and let the rare, cool bliss of solitude sweep over her.

………….

Sherlock staggered out of the privy, pressed his forehead against one of the cool slate pillars which supported the lean-to behind the tavern, and swore wordlessly. Cold sweat trickled down his spine; dark grey specks pricked at the edges of his vision. Given the chance, his most fervent wish in the world was to curl up against the pile of aromatic, half-cured pine logs the tavern-keeper had had piled beneath the lean-to in anticipation of convivial autumn fires and expire there, without fuss or delay.

Alternate flurries of heat and cold racked his body; the heat arid, the cold forming clammy tendrils which extended into every extremity of his body. Compared to this, death itself could offer few terrors. Without conscious thought, his hand extended inside the half-laced neck of his jerkin, to draw the walrus-ivory rosary from the concealed pocket there. Charis's gift – though surely she had not had the wit to choose it unaided – to mark his birthday and the Feast of the Epiphany, both.

No-one who had known him for two turns of the glass would count him a religious man. But the thing itself had been so unexpectedly lovely – the beads carved with precise artistry, each decade marked by a larger bead fashioned as a fiddle or hautboy or lute, betokening a special devotion to St Cecilia as well as the Virgin or – much less conventionally – a sly allusion to his own musical preferences. But the best part of the gift had been John's face, beaming with delight at Sherlock's pleasure in it.

He clutched it. The beads bit into flesh which momentarily felt cold as the Arctic seas from which those walrus ivory beads had been torn.

"- And at the hour of our death," he finished, aware for the first time he had in fact been praying – though to whom, or what, he could not say.

"Sherlock!" John leaned round the corner of the tavern wall. 'Do we ride now or – you aren't ill, are you?"

There was – something – in John's expression; Sherlock's insides clenched as he recognised a hint of barbed amusement. He'd waxed too merry at John's expense, earlier. Presumed he could tease him about last night's over-indulgence – and, God, who could deny he'd earned it, these last few months? Not Sherlock, for sure.

Last night, he had dared to believe himself not – for once – a prince, with courtiers, but a man, among friends. Laid himself open, in short. And now he was paying the price.

He'd learnt, too young – as the sickly, nightmare-prone grandchild of a King who prided "manliness" above all other conceivable virtues, as a fastidious, over-educated Prince held hostage at a rambunctious, unsophisticated foreign court – not to let anyone get below his defences. John had been an aberration; someone for whom he had broken every rule he knew and then gone looking for more to break.

He wondered how much John despised him for that abject weakness.

Still – there was no time to worry about things for which there was no help. And, for a surety, he would die before confessing to it.

"No," he said coldly. "Never felt better. The horses are rested, I presume? We ride for Brendelhame."


	2. Chapter 2

Charis choked back her instinctive scream with an effort. She let the door fall shut behind her.

"What on earth have you done to your hair?"

Her husband raised his head a bare inch from her pillow, displaying an air of exhaustion which bordered on collapse. Not only did he still have the dust of the road in that unnatural auburn hair, but his shirt was so sodden with sweat it steamed, visibly. His leather jerkin had been discarded. It lay on the floor by the bed.

"I'm sure some of the tarts you minister to down at the Poor Persons' Hospital have explained to you about hair dye." There was a rasping edge to his sardonic tone.

"Usually they've got other things on their minds when I see them… " Something clicked into place. "So it _was_ you pretending to be this Lord Osric."

He sat up abruptly. "Why did the Castellan come to you?"

"I couldn't bear to sit next to the Bishop, at dinner, not after what he'd said from the pulpit this morning – what Sarai told me he'd said, anyway – so I had to arrange an audience with someone at short notice to have an excuse not to be there."

He flopped back to the bed, and steepled his hands beneath his chin. "Not bad tactics. Still – why him?"

"Sarai chose. I did ask, afterwards, but all she'd say was, 'You should have seen the others. Not being caught that way again.'"

"Ah! I think I know what she means." There was a suspicion of laughter in his voice. "I once gave an ill-thought-out audience to avoid one of Mycroft's dreary state banquets for the Angrian Ambassador and ended up spending the next three weeks down on the Southern border tracking an overgrown man-killing mastiff through the most mosquito-infested swamps the world has ever known. Ended up in a tertian fever. I don't think Sarai's ever forgiven me."

Charis giggled and saw the tense line of the Crown Prince's shoulders relax. Briefly she wondered if she ought to tell him he was forgiven, or leave him guessing. "Anyway, you'd obviously really upset that poor man. It was all I could do to assure him that he was one of the King's most valued lieutenants –"

"That'll come as a surprise to Mycroft."

"And that while I hadn't met Lord Osric _personally_ , I understood he was one of your trusted advisors on matters of security. And that you'd judged it essential to carry out a survey of _all_ the key strong-points of the border, given recent –" Despite herself, her voice choked to a halt. She swallowed determinedly. "Given recent events in Gondal. And that we both very much looked forward to making a personal visit to Castle Cavron in the near future. He went rather a funny colour at that part."

Sherlock put his hands behind his neck and interlaced his fingers.

"What did he ask for?"

"The Castellan? Nothing."

He sat up again. "Really? Either very clever or very stupid, then. Which, I wonder?" His eyes narrowed, as if the lamp-light pained him.

A discreet scratch came at the door. "My lady?"

The Crown Prince put his finger to his lips. He swung his legs to the ground, caught up the discarded jerkin and sidled soundlessly to the window. Charis coughed.

"Come in. I'm quite ready to retire."

Her maid was deft and speedy. In a very short space of time Charis had been undressed and put to bed. The maid hovered for a moment, as if awaiting further commands. Charis shook her head. "That will be all."

The maid nodded, and left. Seconds later Sherlock was back in the room. He thrust a bundle of clothes at her.

"Get dressed."

His mouth was set in a hard, tight line; his pupils were enormous, like those of a hunting cat, almost none of the iris visible. Spots of colour burned in his cheeks.

"What?" Almost despite herself, Charis had thrown back the coverlet. She picked up the bundle and shook it out. A man's – boy's, really – jerkin and leggings. "You can't mean dress in these –"

"I most certainly do. And here's a cap. Cover your hair." He paused, breathing heavily. "I'm not having you spend the night here. It isn't safe. We leave now. And not by the door."

Charis's first thought on donning the leggings was how peculiar it felt to wear cloth tight against one's legs and not to be able to kick free of it. Her second was a half-horrified, half-gleeful thought. So much for the Bishop! And the third, as Sherlock gestured at the drainpipe which ran conveniently close to the balcony, was sheer delight. What freedom it was, being able to climb and run, without the encumbrance of long skirts and petticoats which weighed more than a brace of cannon-balls. Men had no idea how lucky they were.

She reached the roof. Sherlock flipped himself over the parapet after her, caught her hand and pulled her across the sloping leads, among the forest of chimney stacks. He seemed to know his way round this maze, even by moonlight. Quicker than she could have thought possible (far quicker than she could have paced the cool succession of tiled rooms below in her formal Court robes) they were at the far wall of the Governor's palace, looking down into the knot garden and the silvery pool of the central fountain.

"Drainpipe again," Sherlock whispered. "Stick to the shadows when you're down. And avoid the gravel. You'll not leave marks on grass."

Formal garden gave way to kitchen gardens and then to a ramshackle mess of potting sheds, tool cupboards, and compost heaps. Finally, with the help of a water-butt they surmounted the weathered brick wall which marked the extreme edge of the provincial governor's domains and dropped into the lane beyond, where they paused to catch breath.

"They sent me here for three months with my tutor, in my grandfather's time, when they had plague in the capital," Sherlock said abruptly. "God, it was tedious. I worked out twelve ways out of the governor's palace and six back in again. Still, I shouldn't have been able to get to your room. Not that easily. Not even me. And anyone could see that maid had been bought. Not your usual woman, was she? Mycroft's man was right."

He linked his arm with hers. She was glad of his support; the ground was uneven beneath the thin soles of the soft buskin boots he'd insisted she wear. The lane twisted and turned, but had no branches or divisions. Sooner or later, she supposed, they would reach habitation and, in any event, Sherlock clearly knew where he was going.

"What happened?"

"We got here less than an hour ago. Mycroft's man intercepted us just as we passed the city gates, said he had news for my ears only. John went on to see the horses settled – there's a house our people use in the Friargate, opposite the _Golden Ball_ , when we're in town and don't wish it to be known. I was to join him there. Only, Mycroft's man convinced me I shouldn't leave you alone in the governor's palace. Something was planned for tonight."

"What?"

He shrugged. "Not enough information. Snatch or stabbing? Or something more subtle?"

It said something that a casual reference to assassination or abduction provoked no more than a dull, sick, "Not again." And deep relief to have the Prince at her side. She slipped her hand into his.

"Anyway, the King's people are looking after that end," Sherlock said, after a moment's pause. "A girl will have been in your bed since before we left the palace roof, playing you."

Charis shivered. "That's brave."

"She volunteered. You didn't." His grip on her hand tightened; he pulled her closer to his side. It occurred to her that, though her reading and snippets overheard from the domestic staff suggested that this was how young men _ought_ to behave when walking one down a moonlit lane, Sherlock had never shown previous signs of doing anything of the sort. Though, come to think of it, the extravagant panniers of the current fashion made getting close to a woman wearing formal Court attire practically impossible in any event.

Fireworks exploded above them in a riot of sparkling blooms.

"Oh! It's the festival starting."

Sherlock's voice sounded oddly distant. "Yes. To celebrate an incursion by the armies of Gondal, repelled on this spot two centuries ago by the heroic people of Brendelhame."

Charis nodded. "I know. They made a point of telling me as we went into church. That it was a Thanksgiving Mass for victory in the battle of Brendelhame, I mean."

Sherlock came to a stop, spinning her round to face him, his hands grasping her upper arms. "And you said?"

Charis shrugged. "Oh, I said we had very similar festivals in a couple of towns in Gondal. Though much closer to the border, in Gondal's case."

Sherlock tipped back his head and laughed, but broke it off abruptly, going silent, and very still. His grip on her upper arms tightened; she caught her breath. And then he had pulled her tight against him, and was kissing her very thoroughly indeed, his tongue probing between her lips, his hands clutching hard into her flesh. She gave herself up to the blissful, terrifying moment, desperate not to make an ass of herself in her clumsy inexperience.

His lips were burning hot. When it came to kisses, the romances she'd read used "burning" as a petrified epithet. But she'd been helping Sarai in various hospitals for eight months now and Sarai had taught her to use language with surgical precision.

She recalled his eyes, when he had come back into her room from the balcony; the pupils so wide as almost to make the iris invisible. Like a girl who'd used belladonna to made her eyes deep and lustrous for a ball. Like a patient in fever.

She raised a hand, sliding it under the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down harder still against her lips.

That settled it. The skin of his neck was clammy; his breathing came in harsh, ragged gasps. Even the smell which rose off him wasn't just honest male sweat or the clean, slightly spicy scent he used. There was another smell beneath it, something which bypassed her conscious, reasoning brain altogether and took her straight back to the Poor Persons' Lying In Hospital and the girls she'd watched die there.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Surely, you're ill?" Even as she said it, she knew she could hardly have expressed it worse. He let his arms drop, took a step back.

"I only meant – "

"Charis, could you sound more like John if you actually tried?" Impossible to tell what he meant by that. He shook his head, like a water-spaniel trying to clear its ears. He took her into his arms again, but this time the kiss he dropped onto the top of her head was chaste, almost – she supposed – brotherly.

Except that she had never had a brother, and if her parents had given her one he would now be the King of Gondal and she would be anywhere but here.

She let out a small whimper of pain. His arms tightened round her.

"Ssh. I think I may be coming down with something, yes. John's been nagging me about it since this morning. I'll have Sarai check me when we get to the Friargate. But until then –"

"You filthy, shameless rats."

Charis looked over her shoulder, to see a small, pugnacious man, standing in the lane, his hand on his sword-hilt. Behind him two bravos – wearing a livery Charis didn't recognise – shouldered cudgels.

Sherlock's dry lips brushed her ear. "Don't argue, don't hesitate. Run."

He caught her round the waist and flung her up the wall. She grabbed for the coping stone, caught, pulled up, flopped for a second like a landed fish, swung her legs up with an enormous effort and dropped down on the other side. She heard Sherlock's voice. "Well, gentlemen. Are we planning to fight or dance?"

Briars caught at her leggings; thin, whippy branches slashed at her face. She could hear noises behind; someone else climbing the wall. A heavy thud as he landed on her side, swearing and grunting, lumbering footsteps, fallen wood snapping underfoot.

One man after her; that would reduce the odds against Sherlock by a third, if only she could be sure of keeping out of her pursuer's clutches.

Charis ran.

\---  
“What?” John brought down his fist with a sharp thump on the table. The nondescript little man shrugged. “That’s all we know so far. A well-known local demagogue leapt up on the plinth of King Victor’s statue in the Grand Square and urged his fellow citizens to – I quote – ‘turn the Gondal strumpet out into the streets where she belongs’. He’s now in our custody. No apparent connection to any known domestic or foreign subversives.”

The nondescript man was, John now knew, the King’s head of intelligence for the northern marches. He had not vouchsafed a name. If he had, John would have given odds it would not be found in any baptismal register.

“So what caused the riot?” Sarai demanded.

“Predictable, given a Festival crowd, most of whom had been drinking since noon.”

“Dawn,” Sarai interjected.

“Very like. Local patriotism, free municipal ale and a chance of loot. And a Gondal-born princess sleeping in the governor’s palace. Any fool could have guessed what was likely to happen. Yet, most of the palace guard were away from their posts or in their cups. We’ve pulled in the provincial governor. Too early to tell if he’s a plain idiot or a treasonous idiot. Anyway, the Crown Prince wanted to conduct that interrogation himself. Another reason his disappearance is inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” John echoed.

The King’s man nodded. “No reason to suspect worse at present. But you were asking how the riot turned out. A bunch of formidable harpies – most of whom earn their bread as yarn spinners and have the muscles to prove it – decided to improvise a defence force for the Crown Princess. She seems to have made an unexpectedly warm impression on the women of that class in these parts.”

“A tragic, fragile young figure in deep mourning, doggedly performing a tough job to the best of her ability, all the while bearing the twin burdens of her father’s loss and the insensitive boor fate seems to have landed her with by way of husband? No; can’t see why that would resonate with the women workers of Brendelhame at all,” Sarai observed.

“Sherlock – the Crown Prince – isn’t –” John protested.

“He doesn’t go to any lengths to correct the impression, either.” Sarai turned to the King’s man, and smiled. “Don’t mind us. Go on.”

To his credit, he took up his account seamlessly.

“By the time the mob – by this stage a great deal smaller and several degrees drunker –made it to the governor’s palace, there was an opposing force in place mostly commanded by the mob’s own mothers and grandmothers. Panic, obviously. Confusion, generally. In the midst of which, our men within the governor’s palace intercepted an incursion team – who were anything but impromptu. Nasty: I lost two good men. Also, three of the intruders killed, one escaped and the final one swallowed poison from a concealed phial before we could get anything useful out of him. No doubt, though: they were aiming for the Crown Princess.”

“What? And Charis?”

For the first time, the King’s man looked tetchy. “I told you. She left the palace long before then. The Crown Prince insisted on making himself personally responsible for his wife’s safety. Our perimeter man saw them shinning the wall of the governor’s palace moments before the firework display started. You can ask the master of the municipal fireworks yourself, but I’m told it started precisely to time. That being half-past nine of the evening. And that’s the last that’s been seen of them.”

John exhaled. “Charis shinned the back wall?”

“Having previously climbed two drainpipes and traversed the palace roof, yes.” For the first time, the King’s man permitted himself the ghost of a smile. “The Crown Princess was, I should mention for clarity, wearing male apparel at the time.”

“She what? And whose bright idea -?” John raised his hand. “No. I don’t want to know.”

“Brilliant, whoever thought it up.” Sarai’s eyes glittered maliciously. “If you want to give your crack troops the edge, try having them train in current Court fashions for women. Once a man’s run ten miles across country in hooped skirts and chopine heels, he’ll think training with rocks in knapsacks is strictly for boys.”

John glared at her. “That’s not the point I was trying to make. I’m the first to advocate more rational wear for women. Have I ever complained about what you wear for hospital work? But, given that – do you think it makes sense for the Queen of Gondal to be running around Brendelhame dressed as a boy, on the very day the Bishop has inflamed a drunken mob by preaching on the evils of one sex trespassing on the privileges of the other?”

“Good point.” Sarai turned to the King’s man. “Forget your local demagogue climbing up onto King Victor’s statute. I was in the governor’s chapel today. So far as I’m concerned the text the Bishop chose to preach on was, ‘Turn the Gondal strumpet out into the streets where she belongs’.”

The King’s man shook his head. “I’ll grant you, the Bishop preached a remarkably inflammatory sermon. A full transcript of which has been sent to the King. But I doubt a drunken mob was his intended audience. Not with an argument stolen wholesale from John Chrysotom. With the odd touch of Origen and a light sprinkling of St Augustine of Hippo.”

They gaped at him. He shrugged. “One has to have a pastime. The patrists are mine.”

John rose to his feet, took four impatient strides across the room and turned on his heel. “This is a waste of time. The Crown Prince and Princess are missing. We should be scouring the city for them, not bickering here.”

“We’ve not been idle. And my eyes in the city will have more chance of seeing something once dawn breaks. But you shouldn’t panic prematurely. As I said, the Princess Charis was last seen with the Crown Prince. Very little harm can have come to her in his company.”

There came a rustle from the doorway. “I bring information.”

No need to ask whether the information was good or bad. The dull, flat tone of the muscular young man who had just arrived said everything.

“What do you mean?” The King’s man’s voice was low. It made the hairs rise on the back of John’s neck.

The new arrival did not look at either John or Sarai. His attention was all for the King’s man. On more than one occasion John had had to bring bad news to men powerful enough to have had him torn apart between wild horses if the whim took them. He hoped, for the sake of his younger self’s pride, that he had managed to acquit himself so creditably.

“One of our analysts, from the capital, is in Brendelhame for a family wedding. Some time after ten last night – the firework display had not been over long – he stumbled out of a tavern’s back door to answer a call of nature.”

“Which tavern?”

“He can’t say. He’d been with the groom and his friends, and gone with the flow. Anyway, he saw two men in strange livery go past, carrying a man between them. Again, not a surprise – leaving aside the rioters, half of Brendelhame was carrying the other half home last night. Except, as the three went past, he thought he recognised the man they were carrying. But he couldn’t place him. So he went back inside and continued drinking and found his way to bed a little shy of midnight. And then he woke up after his first deep sleep and said, out loud, ‘But why would the Prince be ginger?’ And came straight to find us.”

John gulped. “He’s sure?”

“Of course he isn’t sure. Half-cut, strange town, darkness. Plus, he’s an analyst. When do they ever commit to a definite opinion? But there’s no reason he could have known the Prince had dyed his hair. Or be in Brendelhame. He reported to our men before he’d heard the Prince was missing. I think we can assume the report’s solid.”

“And Charis?”

Sarai’s voice. John had never, in his life, struck a woman, but he could have punched her then for voicing a fear he dare not admit to the forefront of his mind, lest he run mad.

The young man shook his head. “All he saw was three men. No sign of the Crown Princess at all.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dawn was coming. Streaks of greenish light spread along the horizon. Early customers, proprietors of eating houses and provision stalls who would need to be offering breakfast soon, were already beginning to queue outside the bakery in the street below. From her vantage point on the tiled roof she had seen the bakery workers arrive, still fuddled from the festival, one or two supported by their fellows. They had fired up the ovens as the bell from the convent across the way sounded for Matins. Now Lauds had come and gone.

Charis had never been so cold in all her life. Or so alone. Or so hungry. The steaming scent of fresh bread was sheer torture in her nostrils.

She could not stay here; she would be horribly visible once it became light. But memories of last night still oppressed her, weighed down her chilled and trembling limbs. The stumbling, hectic scramble through the parkland on the wrong side of the wall, the heavy sounds of her pursuer close behind her, that failed feint back on her tracks, his strong, sweaty hand clamping over her wrist, his grunt of triumph.

Premature triumph. She'd been taught to fight dirty, by experts. Sherlock had drummed it in to her. "Everyone who goes for you will be stronger than you. Older than you. More experienced in combat than you. Have planned it, when you will be taken by surprise. You can have only one possible advantage. Be more ruthless than they can possibly imagine."

Her straight-fingered jab into his eyes had taken him by surprise, revolted her even as she took advantage of his shock and pain to twitch her wrist from his grasp and run once more.

That escape had only been the beginning. The drunken crowds in the city streets were a nightmare – a stinking, heaving mass of humanity, unpredictably jovial or violent by turns. Men wearing the magpie livery of those who had stopped them in the lane roved, ceaselessly, among the throng. They moved as if invisible. Rudeness which should have merited drawn steel in other men was passed over as inconsequential by its victims. And, Charis noted as the night drew on, more than once they plucked a man from the crowd and he, too, vanished as if he'd never been.

Lacking money – one of the earliest resolutions of the night was that she would never again allow herself to wear an outfit which did not have, at the least, a gold thaler sewn into its hem – she had been debarred from seeking shelter in the taverns. It had rained, intermittently, during the night; not a heavy rain but a pervasive drizzle, which seemed to penetrate her very bones.

The streaks of green in the east had been replaced by a dull, pearl-grey light. Time to go. It might be that she would have better luck finding the Friargate and the house opposite the _Golden Ball_ now the drunken crowds had dispersed.

Very cautiously, mindful of the bakery and its customers in the lane, she began to edge her way along the rooftop. The gold cupola of the Cathedral, shining dully in the cool light of dawn, helped her orient herself. Notwithstanding her ceaseless movement during the night – at least, until she had found her rooftop eyrie – she had travelled little more than a mile in a straight line from the governor's palace.

This, though, was a different area, lacking the aristocratic detachment of the neighbourhood adjoining the palace. There were still townhouses, presumably superior merchants' residences, with mews, stable-blocks and long strips of pleasure grounds running behind them to the river which bisected the city. Their frontages, though, were narrow, squeezed together and interspersed here and there with small businesses, like the bakery, or with wine-shops or provision merchants. Most of the latter bore discreet shields or tasselled pennants, signifying their possession of a warrant to supply the governor, the Bishop, or – vary rarely – the Royal Household. Charis toyed, fancifully, with the notion of hammering on the door of one of the latter, declaiming she was the Crown Princess of Gaaldine and if they wanted to keep their damn warrant, they'd better supply her with breakfast _right now_.

An absurd thought. In a city so hostile to her that her husband had to steal her out of the governor's own palace by way of the roof, how big a fool would she be to trust to the kindness of tradesmen, simply because they opted to leverage the snob value of selling their pickles and preserves to the Royal House of Gaaldine?

She reached the end of the roof and eyed the gap between these buildings and the next group. Not wide – she'd jumped worse last night, from one bit of the governor's palace to another, though that hadn't counted, not properly, because Sherlock had more-or-less taken it in stride and then turned to look back at her with an exasperated expression on his face which had reminded her of her father, the first time she'd killed when out hunting with him and she'd held back, expecting one of the hunt servants to perform the gralloch for her. Which, of course, had made taking the leap inevitable.

Alone, chilled, hungry and now with enough daylight to see how far it was to the ground and exactly what she'd be landing on if she missed, she frankly didn't fancy it. She cast back along the roof-top, until she found a drainpipe solid enough to trust. She grasped it firmly, swung one leg over the parapet and then the other, and started to descend.

The drainpipe ended just above a water-butt. Behind lay the main bulk of the house; in front, across a cobbled yard, was a stable block. Full, it seemed; there were occasional whickerings and the sound of beasts stirring in their stalls.

Charis glanced up at the sky again. Dawn was spreading fast; warm touches of colour starting to replace the grey. In a well-kept stable yard – and the neatly swept cobbles, tidy muck heap and general air of well-directed elbow-grease suggested this was a _very_ well-kept stable yard – the lads would be out here with water-buckets and grooming kit any moment now.

Past the line of stalls was a gate. Beyond were market gardens and beyond them the shining line of the river. And over the river was the shining gold cupola of the Cathedral. Once in the vicinity of the Cathedral, someone would tell her the way to the Friargate. All she had to do was get out through the garden gate before the stable lads arrived.

Half way down the line of stalls she heard the harsh, quick breathing of a horse in distress. Before thinking about it, she unlatched the top half of the stable door. The great bay stallion was on its side; trapped there, unable to rise, its hooves wedged against the partition. As it caught her unfamiliar scent it craned its head round. Its ears went flat back. Its muscles bunched. Its lips curled, exposing vicious yellow teeth.

All of her short life had been spent around horses. The stallion was on the brink of going frantic, causing itself irreparable harm as it threshed and lashed out. No stranger could calm it – anyone who tried risked serious injury or worse. Only its own grooms would do.

She ran for the house, hammering on the back door and yelling as she ran. "You've a cast horse on your hands, you slumbering imbeciles! Get someone out here at once, damn you all to hell." For a moment she thought no-one had heard; she glanced around for a rock to hurl through a window. Then the door opened and two figures shot through it, half-clad, unshod, running for the stalls.

Mother of God, and she'd been trying to leave the stable yard without being spotted. No chance now of taking the bold route to the gate. Dodging behind the muckheap and casting back round the stalls might –

She found her collar grabbed in a grip so firm that to shake it off would be like a leech trying to shake off the beast to whose flesh it cleaved.

"Not going anywhere, you." The growling voice was somehow familiar but that firm grip precluded her craning her head to identify her captor. "Not till I find out what you're doing in my stable yard at this godawful hour in the first place."

"Trying to save your horse's life and limbs," Charis snapped, pushing her voice into its lowest register – which still sounded horribly squeaky.

"A fair point, but incomplete." He thrust open the back door of the house. "You see, when I hear noises suggestive of someone shinning down the drainpipe past my bedroom, I don't just roll over and go back to sleep. I've been following your antics with interest through various windows for some time. Mrs H.!"

A middle-aged woman popped out of a scullery.

"Sir?"

"Here. Make sure this one doesn't get away until I've sorted out whatever those imbeciles are doing in the stables. I've questions I need to ask and I want to make sure I've still got someone to ask them of when I get back. Which may be some time."

"Sir, I'm your housekeeper, not your turnkey. How am I supposed to –"

"Use what passes for your brains." The choking grip on Charis's collar eased – he thrust her forward so firmly she almost went sprawling. She heard booted feet vanishing down the corridor and then the slam of the back door. She had hardly caught her breath before she heard it open again, and that voice bellowing down the passage.

"Your problem. But a word of advice. If I were you, Mrs H., and you want to see our prisoner stays put, you could do a lot worse than feed it."

The slam of the door which followed had an air of finality about it.

Mrs H. sniffed. "Well, the guv'nor said it. You'd best come with me into the kitchen. I suppose bread, beer and bacon will do? Though yesterday's cold duck could do with using up, in this warm weather, and I couldn't get any of the officers to fancy it. Or I could fry you some eggs? And then there's that nice spiced sausage the grocer two streets over sent in –"

……

"What do you mean, clear out?" John looked up in consternation. The nondescript man shrugged.

"Exactly what I said. This house is no longer a safe base for the King's operations. We disperse. No returning to the governor's palace, either, pending our interrogation of the governor."

John set his jaw. "And what about the analyst who gave us the last news about Sherlock's whereabouts? Where's he? Because it's high time we had a word. Perhaps he can remember the livery the men were wearing?"

"Perhaps he could have done," the nondescript man said. "Until he was found floating face-down in the river half a turn ago. Couldn't even have made it back to his lodgings. Might have been an accident, of course. He was none too sober, after all."

Sarai gasped. "I see. In that case, we'd better take your advice."

John stuck out his jaw. "But if we leave this house, it's the only place Charis knows to come back to in the whole of Brendelhame. The Crown Princess is lost in a strange city, and you're asking us to abandon the only point of reference she has."

The nondescript man looked as if he'd swallowed verjuice. "The information that this was our safe house in Brendelhame was to be distributed on a strictly need-to-know basis. I hardly think the Crown Prince would have been so indiscreet –"

"As to consider his own wife needed to know where they were heading to while escaping an attempt on her life?" John's voice reflected his seething anger.

Sarai rose to her feet. "Losing your temper won't help. Time's running out. If we're going to find the Crown Princess, three heads are better than two. And the best head I know in Gaaldine is the Crown Prince's. We start by finding him."

The nondescript man eyed her narrowly. "I'm answerable to the King. What are you planning?"

Sarai smiled sweetly. "Need to know, I'm afraid. Come, John."

……..

"So, what were you doing in our stable yard, anyway?" From the way the grooms had deferred to him earlier, her questioner must be an officer. An officer who was a world removed from the members of the General Staff she'd met at the palace, though. His mop of hair was even more wayward than Sherlock's and he sported an ill-trimmed moustache and an overall appearance suggesting that he'd slept in his clothes. Though she was hardly one to talk; her jerkin and leggings had been undistinguished to begin with and were now much the worse for the night's experiences.

"I was – " Charis gulped. Long experience with sceptical governesses had taught her that the key to a truly successful lie was to mix as much truth in with it as possible. However, at least until she knew who had her captive, none of the truth of last night's experiences would bear scrutiny. Which made lying that much more difficult.

"Spit it out, lad. First time in the city?"

She nodded. "My – " she paused. "My older brother knows Brendelhame, though. He took me out to see the festival – and then we ran into three bravos in a lane and they were spoiling for a fight, so he told me to run –"

"And you did?" A second officer, younger than the first, and, if anything, even worse turned-out, stared at her with disbelief. "Leaving your own brother outnumbered _three to one_?"

"I thought some of them might follow me," Charis said, stung by his obvious contempt. "And one did – he grabbed me, look –"

She rolled up her sleeve. The bruises on her wrist had hardly had a chance to bloom; whatever they might look like by tonight, they were currently an unimpressive group of dull pink marks. The assembled party regarded them with scorn.

"Might be anything, them," the moustachioed officer scoffed.

"Well, they're not. He nearly had me, I had to jab my fingers in his eyes to get away –"

"Oh, yeah? You and whose army?"

"A fair question, Raimondo; a very fair question indeed. You and _whose_ army, precisely?"

Her original captor came in, slamming the door to the stable yard behind him with a well-placed boot. He looked her straight in the eyes, and the grin on his face was like the expression on the lion in the palace menagerie, when someone had delivered it the carcase of a foundered mule.

She recognised him, of course. She'd seen him only yesterday – back in that long-ago life when her only problem had been avoiding awkward prelates at the dinner table.

More to the point, it was utterly apparent that recognition ran both ways. And that he had not the slightest inclination of being a gentleman about it.

"So," said the Castellan, savouring every syllable as if it had been fine wine, "might this – _brother_ of yours answer to the name of Lord Osric? At least, from time to time?"

"Lord Osric, guv? But isn't that -?" The younger officer's voice cut out, abruptly. In response to a fairly vicious kick from the man with the moustache, if Charis was any judge. Good. At least there seemed some remnants of justice in this increasingly arbitrary universe.

The Castellan sighed. "Dear God, Chris, there's times I worry about you. And Raimondo – I'd not have expected this from a man of the world like you. Ma'am, I apologise for my officers. I admit, they've been up on the border a bit too long, and up our way in the dark winter months when the snow closes off the roads at either end the locals don't play 'Animal, Vegetable, Substance' to pass the lonely hours, more like 'Sister, Mother, Sheep' and, frankly, it might have rubbed off on them. But, for the love of Mary, you two, take a look at the exceptionally fine pair of _unquestionably female_ pins our visitor is sporting beneath her jerkin. To say nothing of the elegantly styled hair peeping out from that preposterous cap. Coupled with her not-in-the-least-convincing vocalisations."

"And," Charis said, from an obscure sense that even if she had been rumbled by this appalling man, at least she wasn't proposing to surrender the flag without a shot being fired, "also coupled with the fact that you met me, face to face, in a formal audience yesterday where you kissed my hand. Admittedly, I'm impressed that you recall any salient points about my face, Castellan, from that encounter, since I didn't believe your eyes had rested in that particular location for very long, if at all, but yes. I'm the Crown Princess of Gaaldine. And yes, I do possess an army. In-law. So what are you planning to do about it?"

The Castellan drew himself up to his full height – a difficult business, given the low beams in the kitchen – and then swept her the lowest of possible bows.

"Put myself and my officers unequivocally at your service, of course." He must have caught her sceptical expression, because he added, "I'm the King's man, me. And that extends to the King's heir and the King's heir's wife – even if we have spent the last God-knows how many years trying to keep Gondal out of Castle Cavron, and now three bunches of orange-blossom, a nuptial mass and a bit of lace later we seem to be expected to open and spread ourselves like a brace of Big Gertie's finest welcoming the Angrian fleet into port. But that's politics for you."

"Meaning?" Charis said acidly, acutely aware that both the officers' entire attention had been riveted on her legs since the Castellan had mentioned them.

The Castellan beamed. "Meaning, love – that is, ma'am, your Princesship, whatever – that I'm a loyal servant of the Royal house of Gaaldine. To the death and beyond. Whatever I might think about a certain supercilious ginger tosser. Who, I gather, is fictional anyway. So, in those circumstance, how may I serve your grace?"

A huge bubble of laughter threatened to overwhelm her. "Might another leg of the cold duck and a couple of rashers of bacon be out of the question? If it wouldn't put Mrs H. out." She paused for a moment and let her face grow serious. "The Crown Prince feared for my safety, last night , in the governor's palace. He suggested I should escape with him, in disguise. We fled over the palace roof, and made our way through the gardens and into the lane beyond. Where – I fear my husband had a fever on him, when he faced up to those bravos in the lane, there. Otherwise, I doubt not he would have overcome them at once. His lips felt very hot, just before they surprised us. I mean – that is when – I was – we were –"

A blush overcame her, recalling those brief, glorious, stolen moments. The Castellan's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"Well, well, well."

"Well, what?"

"Nothing. Moonlit night – scent of lavender on the warm night breeze – the influence of a remarkably fetching pair of pins in skin-tight leggings. I can see exactly how it must have happened."

"Can you?" she breathed venomously. Somewhat surprisingly, there seemed no hint of mockery about his expression.

"Yes. I can indeed. One of Slippery Jimmy's purity patrols, that sounds like. No surprise they were sticking their beaks down there. That lane's a known cake-walk for half the mollies in the Northern Marches. Has been for as long as I can remember."

"You what, guv?" The younger officer – the one addressed as Chris, earlier – looked puzzled. The Castellan sighed with exaggerated exasperation.

"I mean, it's got a longstanding reputation as a trysting ground for those of the uphill gardening persuasion. Savvy? Well, if not, tell Raimondo to enlighten you later, somewhere it's not going to shock our lady guest."

"Please remember, I am a married woman," Charis said with frosty dignity. Then - "You mean – they saw us kissing and they thought – "

"Oh, finally someone gets it. Yes. Festival evening, ale flowing like water, and two indistinct figures in jerkins and leggings in a compromising position at the end of a dark lane. What's the more likely conclusion a not-over-bright bravo is going to jump to? 'Sodomy in progress' or 'Oh, that's a high ranking member of the Royal Family breaking off for a bit of well earned slap and tickle with his missus'?"

Charis took a bite of bread, to buy time. "But if that's so – do you know where will they have taken him?"

"Know? Of course I know. Just because they shunted me up to the border five years ago doesn't stop this being my patch. I used to run public order and security for the old provincial governor. Christ, that man was a bastard." The Castellan wagged his finger at her. "Bastard or not, though, he'd never have stood for what goes on in this city now. "

"What's that?" Charis felt a little sick. Sherlock was out in the city, and, if he hadn't found her yet, something must be seriously wrong.

"The old man didn't stand any crap from the Cathedral. Anyone the Dean and Chapter pulled in on a morals charge had to be tried by the next consistory court. They held them regular as clockwork, third Tuesday of the month. So the punters were either found guilty or thrown back and told to be more careful. But Slippery Jimmy can't bear to risk anyone his snoop squads picks up being found innocent. And the new governor hasn't the gumption to stand up to him. There hasn't been a consistory court for the best part of two years. And most of the men who go into the Bishop's cells leave feet first."

"And you think that's where Sherlock will have been taken? To the Bishop's cells?"

The Castellan glared at her impatiently. "Well? What're you looking so surprised about? I said Slippery Jimmy, didn't I?"

"The Bishop – is Slippery Jimmy?"

"You do well to look like that. If anyone ever wants proof that scum rises, he only needs to look at Slippery Jimmy. Back in my home village, we used to throw him in the pig-pens, any chance we got. Annoyed the pigs something chronic. We hoped they'd eat him. No such luck. Surprisingly high standards, pigs."

"So how did he rise to a bishopric?" Charis asked.

"God knows. And I mean that literally, for once. Though I expect his mother had a lot to do with it. Slippery Jimmy's, not God's. Very well-connected, she was. Never let any of us forget it. Of course, back then her brother was just the second son of the junior branch of a noble family, so we didn't pay much attention. But take twenty-five years and a series of tragic, completely unexpected and not-at-all suspicious deaths and her brother is one of the most powerful dukes in Gaaldine and Slippery Jimmy's a bishop."

"What Horatio told me he'd heard," the moustachioed officer interjected, "is that the Duke informed the King his family were due a favour, the first appointments that came up were a bishopric or an admiralcy, and the King thought God could look after himself better than the poor bloody sailor boys. Sorry, miss – I mean, ma'am."

From what Charis had seen of the King's style, it seemed horribly plausible. The Castellan shrugged.

"Anyway, whatever the reason, we're stuck with him. And Slippery Jimmy – as any of us could have told the King – is the absolute worst sort of bishop. Stupid, energetic, thinks God sits on his shoulder like that parrot Horatio used to have till I wrung its neck for taking a dump in my ale, and very against Sin. Which, in Slippery Jimmy's case, means being against anything he's not very interested in doing himself. Which is why he's converted some of the finest wine cellars there used to be into these parts into a set of dungeons where his bravos throw every poor bugger they suspect of looking at them limp-wristed. Which is where your husband will be now, I daresay."

"So will you help?"

"Let's see. I've got a man who's been thrown into gaol for kissing his own wife, which tells you all you need to know about Court morals. I've got a fifteen-year old princess with great legs begging me for help. I've got a chance to make both the King and the heir apparent to the throne grateful to me forever and rub the said heir's nose in the fact that he tried to take me for a fool in my own castle. I get to make Slippery Jimmy eat dirt. Well, I suppose you could up the odds in favour of my taking the case by offering vast sums in coined silver or complicated and athletic sexual favours –"

"I'm sure Big Gertie can be prevailed upon to offer excellent discounts to all your garrison officers, should they chance to be in the capital," Charis said. "Her establishment is just off Cathedral Square. I understand most citizens are able to direct strangers to it."

The Castellan threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, I bet the Crown Prince didn't know what he was getting, when he got you. Yes. We're in. Deal done."

"But how are we to spring a prisoner from the Bishop's gaol?"

"Well, you could try not hiring a dog and barking yourself." The Castellan tapped one thick forefinger on the table. "You don't think we're planning anything energetic, do you? Because you've got another think coming. To get someone out of a dungeon, there's only two things you need. Bribery and brutality. The more bribery, the less brutality. And vice versa. Only one question, then. How generous are you feeling?"

Charis set her teeth. "Very parsimonious indeed."

"I like a woman with a good grasp of domestic economy." The Castellan paused. "Except when it comes to drinks for the men."

She exhaled. "If you succeed, you and your officers can each have a bath-tub full of any liquor you care to name. My word on it."

The Castellan grinned. "I like your style, kid. Raimondo, Chris. I hope you've been practising your clog dancing. Because we're going to put on a show. And we'll be using Slippery Jimmy's snouts as the stage."


	4. Chapter 4

"Another one." Sarai said grimly. She held her lantern so John could see the dull, red rash spreading across the corpse's chest, down his trunk and out onto the limbs. John nodded, bent, and extended a gentle thumb to draw down the lids over the sunken, staring eyes. He turned to the orderlies.

"Carry him out." John pinched his nostrils at the reek of gangrenous flesh which rose from the heaving straw. He picked up his own lantern and pushed further back into the warren of interconnecting dungeons. Yellow hands clawed at him; skull-like faces shrank back, moaning pitiably as the feeble lantern beams stabbed at their over-sensitised eyes. Here and there a glimpse of damp, black curls (crawling with vermin, inevitably, in this crowded Purgatorio) or of high, sharp cheekbones would, briefly, send agonies of fear tingling down his nerves, only for a closer look to drive him back to the dull, unspeakable, unending grind of dread. And they had, of course, no evidence Sherlock had ever been here; just references to a strange livery and whispered hints as to what caused men to vanish without trace in this city.

"John! Here!" Sarai's voice cut through the foetid, chill fog of the dungeon. He almost tripped in his haste, but the skinny, grey-haired figure in the straw was a world away from what he had hoped to see. Except –

Clasped in that slight, insignificant hand was a rosary – impossibly fine for anything that could have escaped the turnkeys' grasping hands, absent a conjuring trick, or a miracle. Or the application of an infinitely ingenious brain. Walrus ivory, the bead marking each decade carved in the fashion of a musical instrument; little fiddles, hautboys, lutes all complete.

"You bastard! You thief!"

It was only when he felt Sarai's hand biting into his arm that he backed away a foot or so from the frail, wracked figure on his straw pallet, recalled to his vocation in a blinding storm of shame.

" _Not a thief._ " The grey-haired man's voice was a thread in the darkness, febrile and rapid. He broke off speaking to cough. They all – the two doctors, the hovering orderlies – waited for him to finish. In a feeble gesture of all-but forgotten gentility he raised the back of his hand – the hand holding the rosary – to brush his lips clean of spittle before he continued. His voice had the sing-song cadence of a man on the edge of delirium, clinging to lucidity by an act of will.

"In the night, in my agony, I called upon the blessed Cecilia – I was born on the twenty second day of November – they named me Cecil in her honour – and he thrust his own rosary into my hands. He said there was no God, but if it made an idiot pass easier then my need was more than his and perhaps it might shut me up so he could sleep."

John had taken wounds to the chest that cut less deep. "And then? Good God, man. What then?"

Cecil's head dropped back against Sarai's leather clad knee. His eyes were dulling, but with one last flicker of consciousness he murmured, "They came and took him. Far from here."

John unlocked the shackle around Cecil's ankle, hissing in disgust at the raw sore it had eroded in the small man's flesh. How long had the poor bastard been here, rotting abandoned in the noisome dark?

He nodded to the orderlies. "Take him out. Ensure he has the best of care. And then – do for the rest as their need suggests. We're needed elsewhere."

"And what, pray, is the meaning of this outrage?"

The Bishop stood on the threshold of his dungeon, holding a nosegay delicately to his nostrils in a gesture more symbolic than effectual. The orderlies – battle-hardened men who feared neither God nor devil and only accorded grudging respect to ordnance – did not break step as they approached the threshold, Cecil moaning and tossing on the makeshift stretcher they carried.

"Mind your back, m'Lord. Casualty coming through."

The Bishop paused, as if considering barring them passage, and then made a sideways step, leaving them just enough space for them to squeeze through. He did not deign to acknowledge them as they passed over the threshold and out towards the daylight.

"A work of charity, my Lord." Sarai's voice was as musical as a flute and as deadly as honed steel. The Bishop's eyes passed over her as if she were invisible and focussed on John.

"Well?"

"We learnt of an epidemic of gaol fever, my Lord. I owe a special dedication to St Luke –who was both a physician and a some-time prisoner. We came here to relieve the prisoners' distress to the best of our ability."

Bland, professional – an officer reporting to one of equivalent rank.

"Gaol fever." The Bishop raised his nosegay to his nostrils and inhaled. "And we are, indeed, in a gaol. I do not suppose a physician finds much time to study the Platonists, but surely the name indicates that it is an affliction proper to the location?"

John buried his clenched fist in the folds of his gown. They were inside the Bishop's own palace – in his very dungeons, for that matter. Striking him now would be a supremely ill-judged move. Especially if he had concealed Sherlock somewhere for his own dark purposes. He schooled his voice and features to dispassion.

"And of army camps So, over my career, I have paid particular attention to the disease. And discovered that with proper precautions and – management – both its incidence and its severity can be greatly reduced."

"Gondalian gaols. Gondalian army camps." The Bishop's lip curled in contempt. "You're not in Gondal now, surgeon."

John let his gaze travel round the flickering, ill-lit dungeons; the yellowing, emaciated prisoners, hunched and listless in the filthy straw or frantically straining against their shackles in an extremity of fever.

"Evidently. My Lord."

The Bishop inhaled, sharply, The two men-at-arms behind him fingered their weapons, as if awaiting the word to strike. And then a slender, black garbed man, with the harassed air and ink-stained hands of some secretary or confidential clerk, appeared in the doorway, swallowed, hard, and said, "My Lord Bishop? Might I have the favour of a word? It is on a matter of the utmost urgency."

Reluctantly, the Bishop nodded. The two men withdrew from the dungeon, while the men-at-arms closed up the doorway, presenting arms across and barring John and Sarai's departure.

John sighed. "If you are determined to keep us here, I trust you will have no objection if we continue to do our duties?"

The two soldiers exchanged glances. The taller, a grizzled-haired veteran, nodded, grudgingly. "Don't see why you're bothering. If the shit-shaggers survive, they'll be looking at the stake. In their place, I'd settle for gaol fever. "

Cold fear stabbed in his guts. He held his voice steady. "I'll remind you, none of the prisoners here have been convicted of any crime. They await the judgment of the Consistory Court. Even if found guilty, their further disposition depends on the civil power. And the King has let it be known – even in the case of proven sodomy – neither he nor any of his lieutenants will sign a death warrant in cases where the parties are consenting and of full age and capacity."

"Kings can change – "

"Their minds," the Bishop completed smoothly, reappearing in the doorway.

John looked at him; really looked, as Sherlock had exhorted him years ago, trying not merely to see but to observe. Something had happened in that brief interlude. Previously the Bishop had been angry but sure of himself, handling interlopers into his fiefdom with a confident touch and a mind conscious of its own rectitude. Now, something had unbalanced him. His pose of smooth contempt was almost flawless but it was precisely that: a pose. Before his secretary had interrupted him, it had been the genuine article.

For the first time in the whole of that long, hopeless night John felt the faintest possible lift of his spirits.

"Well, it seems fate has sent a physician to me when I find myself in unexpected need of one." The Bishop's tone had a sour edge to it.

"My Lord?"

"Two of my turnkeys. Found stripped to their small-clothes, bound and gagged in an alley. Left there all night. They've been brought to my palace. Will you deign to treat them or do you reserve your compassion only for moral degenerates?"

John remarked, demurely, that his oath obliged him to treat anyone, be he prelate or gallows-fodder, regardless of his personal opinion of them. The Bishop did not take the bait, but as they left the dungeon complex he turned to look back over his shoulder at the men-at-arms.

"Throw the infidel bitch out," he said pleasantly.

……..

 _Oysters. Millions upon millions of them, covering the sea-bed, fastening upon each other, growing into great stacks and towers, lapping up the beaches. He has climbed the tallest palm in the centre of the island and seen how the dark, grey-green serried mass of calcareous shells presses ever inwards, how the green vegetation of the interior shrinks daily, hourly beneath its encroachment. Horrible! How can it be that the entire surface of the island is not already covered in oysters?  
The pain begins again, stabs along his leg. The heat laps up, searing his skin; the flesh cracks and bubbles along the lines of his veins. Agony and a blessing, both; heat will deter the oysters; they are, after all, nothing more than sea-water given jellified form and malignancy. Fire against water. Heat will combat the aqueous humours. Maybe they can fight them off long enough to plant crops and see them harvested. So the two of them might win through to see another spring._

……..

Cecil was dead. John returned to the big house adjoining the garrison infirmary to find Sarai hunched by the fire – she had always been a chilly mortal – a glass of distilled barley-spirit in her hand and the decanter on a low table close by. He topped up her glass and poured himself a generous measure before risking speech.

"The orderlies told me," he said, without preamble.

"No records. No word. Nothing. I could not even send word to his loved ones, to be with him at the end –"

"Given the Bishop, don't you think that may rather have been Cecil's intention? Not to leave a trail that might kill someone else."

Sarai spat, eloquently, into the fire and said something in a language John did not speak but which he could translate accurately, nonetheless. He patted her cold hand.

"Anyway, I do have some news. Someone has an even lower opinion of the Bishop's turnkeys than we do. "

She looked up at him for the first time. "Your patients?"

"Judging by the bruises, someone kicked seventeen kinds of shit out of them late yesterday evening. Not a novice at it, either. Must have been wearing hob-nailed boots."

"Should have been their master, instead." Sarai took a deep swig of the barley-spirit.

"That's coming. Anyway, what was it Cecil said about Sherlock?"

"'They came and took him far from here,' "Sarai quoted. "Odd. You'd hardly think they'd have announced _where_ they were taking him – whoever _they_ were."

"Unless Sherlock passed Cecil a message and he was too far gone when we found him to pass it on?"

Sarai's lips tightened; she gave a curt, acknowledging nod. "And the turnkeys? How did they end up in an alley?"

"That's what I've been trying to work out. How does this sound? The turnkeys come on duty yesterday evening. Most likely, they've spent the afternoon in the tavern already. Someone turns up – on spec or by pre-arrangement – with a cock-and-bull story of delivering comforts to a prisoner. Probably offers a bribe. By way of additional sweetener, also offers them a flask of wine. Wine stains as well as blood on their jerkins. Also, if I'm any judge of the state they were in, tincture of opium in the wine."

"Ah." Sarai leant forward, her eyes bright. "What happens then?"

"The now-fuddled turnkeys are ambushed, overpowered, stripped and a couple of the attackers change into their livery, so they can pass through the Bishop's palace with less chance of being challenged. They enter the gaol and take Sherlock –"

"Where? And why? And wouldn't he resist?"

"If the alternative was staying in that hell-hole? He couldn't have known we'd find him before the Bishop did. Also, they may have been people he knew or had reason to trust."

Someone was hammering on the street door, two floors below them.

"Don't worry," Sarai said. "One of the men will get it. Anyway, I've been thinking. 'Far from here' – could that mean 'not from round here'? Could that have been what Cecil meant? That they had unfamiliar accents – perhaps they were the King's men, from the capital?"

Hope spiked before cold reality intervened. "The King's agent in the north would have heard. If they were agents, they were of some foreign power. Angria, perhaps."

"Or Gondal."

John's mind went, immediately, to the Pretender. If he had dared –

"If –"

One of the orderlies burst into the room. "Medical emergency. Sir. Ma'am. We have to go now."

"Who? What?"

John asked the question, but the orderly turned to Sarai to give his answer. "It's the Crown Prince. There's a man below who says he's got him. And that he's dying."

……….

Sunlight; the high sun of noon-tide, falling full across his face. It shone, orange-pink, through his closed lids. The shutters of the room were open; the window, too. The sound of military drill – barked orders, marching feet in serried rows – filtered thinly up from somewhere down below. The warm summer breeze bore scents of dog roses and lavender as it brushed across his face and scalp –

Scalp. His hand stole up to feel the curls which should have been there and met only a harsh, resistant stubble. His head had been shaved – like a convicted felon or a galley slave –

Like a fever victim.

Memories came rushing back. Moving across the roof in a miasma of delirium, pushed on by sheer will-power. His thoughts swirling in senseless patterns like startled birds, out of his control. The oppressive sense of something lurking in the shadows, something he'd overlooked, a threat made concrete in the shape of three liveried bravos, all dead-fish eyes and sanctimonious jowls. The aching weight of fevered limbs as he staggered blindly into a fight he'd never sought, a fight he had to win, since by his idiot carelessness he'd staked not just himself but Charis, too –

Charis.

His eyes flicked open. He took in, without surprise, the dark clad figure sitting silently behind the bed.

John. Of course. He would be here. For a moment Sherlock almost hated him for it. No postponing the fear, blame and hate his admission must provoke, then. Out and have done with it.

"I lost Charis."

"So you kept saying. Once you became coherent enough for us to understand." John's voice sounded relaxed – impossibly, amused. "I think she found it rather endearing the first dozen times, but after that she felt moved to point out that she wasn't a pair of riding gloves."

"Wha-?"

"She's asleep on a pallet in the next room; I finally persuaded her to go to bed half a turn of the glass ago. She was out on her feet by then." John peered at him. "How much do you remember, after the governor's palace?"

He cast his mind back. "Nothing since the gaol. Patchy bits before that. A jumbled, incoherent mass, lit by random flashes of idiocy."

"I told you to get that leg seen to. It was pure luck you didn't come down with gaol fever, on top of the wound-sickness. We spent the best part of three days worried you had."

He rested his forehead against John's chest – let himself be lulled by the soothing rhythm of the powerful heartbeat – and closed his eyes again. "Can't promise. Sorry. But at least I'll try not to get killed by stupidity again."

He felt like a wrung-out rag; his brain rendered light and inconsequential as syllabub. It was, almost, a relief. Somewhere, elsewhere, the inner clockwork of Government wound on. Human chess-pieces moved into this or that position to combat this or that anticipated move by Gondal, Angria or dissident forces within the borders. Already, no doubt, there would be various cipher messages from Mycroft exhorting him to set in motion this or that machination. Top of the pile, probably, a demand for any useful intelligence he might have gained from within the Bishop's cells. Mycroft wouldn't actually have contrived Sherlock's imprisonment there – probably not, at least – but he certainly wouldn't allow himself to waste any advantage he might gain from the happenstance of Sherlock's having fetched up there.

But for now – for a few short hours he would set aside all that. Sarai and John between them could stand between him and the realm's importunities. Charis was safe – however badly he'd blundered at everything else, at least he'd succeeded at getting her out of the governor's palace.

Charis. Something lurked beneath the surface of memory. He'd done something immeasurably stupid about Charis, something which would lie like a petard awaiting the gunner's touch beneath the rock-strewn, ambiguous landscape of their marriage.

If only he could remember what.

He hoped John hadn't exaggerated Charis's exhaustion. Whether or not John was successfully fooling himself their current embrace represented the platonic reaction of comrades-in-arms to a close and recent brush with death, it would be exceptionally awkward if she were to walk in. Even after eight months, Sherlock knew disconcertingly little about his wife's thought processes – worrying, given he prided himself on the ease with which he read the men and women who surrounded him. Still, one thing was certain; there was nothing like a Court upbringing for teaching an intelligent child that nine times out of ten the most salacious explanation for any given scenario was, in fact, correct. And, whatever else he didn't know about Charis, she was not stupid.

"And is she all right?"

He could feel John's amusement ripple through his body. "Perfectly. Once she wakes up, I'm sure she'll tell you she ran _exactly_ when you told her to and, what's more, that she stole you from the Bishop's cells before either we or the King's agents managed it. She hasn't been shy about rubbing that in, at least once your fever broke and we convinced her she wasn't on the verge of becoming a widow, after all."

John frowned. "There is one thing, though. She seems to have got herself into an awful state about some expenses she'd run up in getting you out of the Bishop's gaol. She said she couldn't face explaining them to the Comptroller of her Household. Have you any idea who Big Gertie is? And why Charis seems to have committed to underwriting massive discounts with her?"

"You _must_ have heard of Big Gertie. Visitors usually ask for her establishment by name when they first arrive in the capital – as an attraction it ranks third, behind St Oneysimos's shrine and the Palace menagerie. It was second, before Mycroft imported that African water-horse. Cost us no end of trouble and two men's lives, but Royal prestige must be maintained."

" _Big Gertie the madam_? How the hell can Charis have run herself into an obligation to her?"

"Speaking as a husband, I _hope_ the answer is 'by a finished grasp of the art of delegation.' "

"That's not the point. How does she even know her?"

"Oh, really, John. What do you think Charis does down at the Poor Person's Hospital twice a week? Flower arranging?"

The silence above his head was just a little too telling. He sighed. "Tell Charis, if she wakes up before I do, that I'll deal with any expenses she may have incurred on my behalf personally and that old stick Filbert won't need to be troubled with knowing about a brass cent of them. And see if you can divide up the stuff that everyone's been telling you for days needs my personal attention _without fail_ between that which actually does need me to cast an eye over it and that which could be dealt with by a moderately competent cat."

"And find you a moderately competent cat?" John's arms tightened for a moment, then he released him. "Understood. Meanwhile, get some rest. Next time you wake up, you're due for a personal audience with the person who was _really_ responsible for getting you out of the Bishop's cells. And I suspect you may need to brace yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gaol fever" is typhus, a disease typical of overcrowded human environments such as ships, gaols or, as in WWI, the trenches and dugouts. "Wound fever" is septicaemia. Medicine of the period does not recognise the bacterial transmission of disease, antibiotics and antiseptics are largely unknown.


	5. Chapter 5

Hugh looked up as the door bell pealed. The apprentice would get it – no, the apprentice was still at the tannery, arguing about the quality of that last batch of neats' hides. And the girl had set out for the market half a turn of the glass ago, and the round of haggling, gossip and flirtation would occupy her until at least the noon bell.

He laid aside his awl, divested himself of his leather apron, and went to the door.

One glance at the stranger's well-cut, sober clothing impelled Hugh to usher him into the small parlour reserved for customers of quality. A well-off merchant or minor country squire, no doubt. Not young; his dark hair was liberally sprinkled with grey and the way he held himself suggested his slender body had lost the suppleness of youth.

"Some refreshment, sir? How can I assist you?"

"A cup of wine would be most welcome. Thank you. I leave Brendelhame for the capital this evening and will be away five days. If I order boots now, will they be ready on my return?"

"Assuredly." It would be tight work; he'd got behind on fulfilling orders, as days had dragged into weeks without news, and he'd lacked the spirit to attend to his workshop. But, come what may, one had to eat and to provide for one's household. However tempting the alternative, one could not leave one's only sister destitute and dowerless.

He poured the wine and settled the customer in the tall wing-chair with the footstool.

"Left boot first," the stranger said pleasantly. "That foot's a trifle wider than the other."

The removal of boot and sock revealed an ugly scar marring the shin; healed but recent, a puckered mess amid angry red discolouration.

"That must have been painful, sir," Hugh observed, wielding his callipers to judge calf and ankle and jabbing with his stylus at his tablet.

"A humble boot-scraper, if you'll believe it. But it became infected and I delayed seeking treatment and –" He shrugged. "By the way, would you know where I might find the friends of a man named Cecil, a scrivener? He had a stall by the West Door of the church of St James the Less, off Mitregate."

Time stopped in the close parlour. The breath choked in Hugh's lungs. Had Cecil told, despite their mutual oaths and fervent promises –?

 _An oath's not worth a breath, when a skilled man wields the pilliwinks._

How long since he'd heard a drunk bravo make that boast in a tavern, and gone home to cower beneath the sheets, his rosary in his hand, praying over and over that this cup might pass from him?

"I'm sorry," Hugh said, surprised at how even his voice sounded. "You must mistake me. I know of no such man. The other boot, sir?"

The stranger swung his right leg onto the footstool. "I'll have to pursue my enquiries elsewhere, then. A pity. I hate to think of a good man's grave lying untended, for want of a word to his friends."

Hugh gulped. The stranger's right ankle bore a complete circle of abrasions, fading but unmistakeable. The marks of an iron shackle. He looked up into a pair of unwavering grey eyes.

"Yes," the stranger said, though Hugh had asked no question. " _That_ wasn't caused by a boot-scraper. Might it change your answer?"

It could still be a trap, but yes – he had to know and damn the risk.

"You mentioned a grave, sir. But I had understood that when – when prisoners died in the Bishop's cells –"

He could not go on. The stranger's voice was cool, uninflected.

"You understood that the lowest and vilest of the turnkeys were tasked with removing the corpses privily, by night. You understood that they carried them to a certain secret spot – unconsecrated land, outside the city limits. You understood the corpses were tumbled into a common pit, slaked down with quicklime to speed their disintegration, and there left, until the next time the pit needed opening."

Hugh couldn't help it . Sobs – great, racking, unmanly sobs – tore through him. He buried his head in his hands. Words tore unbidden from his throat. "And the Bishop still sits at table in his palace, and none can touch him for it."

He felt the light brush of the stranger's hand on his shoulder; the stranger's own cup being held to his lips.

"Even a Bishop has to answer to a higher power."

Hugh didn't look up; his voice was dull with pain. "The mills of God grind _exceedingly_ slow."

"It wasn't God I had in mind. As we speak, there are men exhuming those bodies, seeing what can be done to find their names. Someone who's learned the language can read a body like a book, even after quicklime. But Cecil was never there. He left the gaol alive. "

Hugh looked up. "You know that?"

"I've spoken with the physician who tended him in his last hour. He could not have had better care had he been of Royal blood."

"Thank God. Thank God. But then where –?"

"There's a hamlet four miles north-west of here, on the road to the border. It used to be a royal hunting demesne, but fashions changed and the game declined, so now it's mostly apple orchards and a cider press. But the chapel there remains a sovereign peculiar; answerable to the King's chaplain and not the diocese. The river laps the churchyard on the southern side. There's a walnut tree on the bank. The grave's beneath its shade."

"We used to fish for trout in that river –"

"So Cecil said, in the gaol. He dreamt himself back there, as the fever mounted. Got all the measurements you need? Good. Let's see your leathers, then. The boots must fit like softest kid, but withstand the hardest winter wear. I ride to war."

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to caulkhead and clanwilliam for betaing and, in particular, to clanwilliam for assistance with regard to horses and religion and caulkhead with regard to fabric.


End file.
